Writing: Moment in Time - Infection (Isolation)

He wasn't sure how long he had been in here, seeing as how there was no clocks and no windows. His cough had gotten worse since he arrived, dragged from his house with his wife and daughter, thrown in a room by people in hazmat suits, and locked away to rot. The white walls were stained red with the blood from his fists from pounding on them for hours demanding his family, but never receiving an answer. He was tired, feverish, and wished that it was all some bad dream. Every so often, so sporaticaly that he thought it was his mind playing tricks, he would hear the sound of screaming nearby. The screams kept him awake when he tried to sleep on the drop down cot that was provided for him. He paced the room more times than he could count, searching for a way out, but every corner was sealed, even the door was set in a way that nothing could pry it open from the inside. He was beyond scared, to the point where he was calm, but the calmness was shattered by the pounding headaches that came closer and closer together.

In his mind, weeks had gone by, but he could never be sure. His cough had turned to hacking, spraying small clots of blood over the white padded floor. The screams became near constant, but he believed them now to be only in his head. No one could scream for that long. Hell, he thought, he hadn't talked for a long time, long ago given up on trying to reach whoever put him in this hole to die. He thought back, straining to remember what happened that would make someone destroy him and his family. The headache was intolerable, dashing thoughts against jagged rocks. He slammed his fists down in anger, wishing he could just pull one thought together. He sat in the corner, holding his nose from the bloody mess that was pouring from it, more than likely from the headaches he thought. He listened to his head pound, the screams, the silence between them. The screams. Closer, he thought. Was he alone in this hole? Did they have more people down here, torturing them? Killing them? Blasted headache, he yelled, and instantly grabbed his throat as if something tore inside from not using it for so long. He coughed again, more serious, gasping for air as he watched blood flow from his mouth and pool on the padding. The screams were closer, he could hear that, but he could no longer feel the blood coming from his mouth despite the growing size of the puddle near him.

He tried to stand, get near the door and use what was left of his voice to call for help, but his legs gave out under him with a sickening sound of bone ripping from muscle. He fell face first and braced for the pain which never came. Looking back he saw his shinbone sticking out from his skin, the blood on it dark and thick. Amazement went through his mind as he felt tears rolling down his cheek. Brushing them away and lowering his blood smeared hands to the floor, he dragged his limp body towards the door, leaving a trail of crimson from the corner. He wanted his wife, his daughter. He wanted to be out of this room and find them. His head ached, as if his brain was trying to be released from his skull. He wanted them as he reached the door, pounding on it with impotent rage. What he wanted them for now, he knew he would never forgive himself.